


Ego/Superego

by timbrene



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:18:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3413789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timbrene/pseuds/timbrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mark grows worse, and the Inquisitor receives a lesson on accepting help where it is offered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ego/Superego

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not particularly happy with this, but it's as good as it's ever going to get. Partially inspired by [this cut dialogue](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t4HvTIKXxjs) between the Inquisitor and Solas.

A week after Adamant, it starts to burn.

Whether it has anything to do with the Fade or not, Lavellan doesn’t know. The fact that his mark has begun to light without warning and, by the feel of it, is gradually eating a hole in his palm seems the more pressing concern.

It catches him off-guard more often than he would like. Once in the midst of a battlefield too fast-paced to blink he falters and nearly drops his bow from the sudden rawness; the next night he is wrenched from a dream of trees and running water to a cold sweat and a searing pain, and still the next it ignites at the war table. Josephine cuts short her report to inquire about his face (which is, apparently, not doing a spectacular job at the whole _acting natural_ thing). It’s then, when it starts to affect the others, that he decides something must be done.

Like any wound, he concludes, he will bandage it. The healer’s supplies won’t miss a few, and if they do, he’ll be sure to replenish them. It isn’t as though he doesn’t have the means. He inhales tightly through his teeth at the rawness of the scar against the roughness of the fabric, and has to bite down on his tongue to stop from crying out when he pulls it tight. It still hurts - badly - but it’s a dull pain with less of an edge, and it gets no worse when he gingerly tests his bow against it.

Of course, this does not mean it stops. Twice when it awakens at night. he finds himself one door away from Solas. He stops in the hall each time. He doesn’t want their worry. Not Solas’s, and certainly not- not anyone else’s. They have enough to fret over already, and the last thing they need is to babysit the Inquisitor.

The third time, he allows himself to reach for the handle before letting out a ragged breath and allowing himself to slump forward until his forehead dully clunks against the wood. His palm burns. His breath comes shaky and shallow, and his head spins from the effort of it all.

When the door cracks open, he nearly falls forward with it. Hastily, he stuffs his hand behind his back and braces the other on the doorframe. _Shit_. Solas must have heard him coming, known that something was wrong. How, he doesn’t know - maybe it’s some sort of mystical fade-anomaly-sensing power he has yet to reveal, or maybe (more likely) he heard the thunk of Lavellan’s head against the door ( _idiot_ ) and wondered who was throwing melons. He fights to stay calm, keep his face in check - there has to be something he can say to talk his way out of this. The mage may not believe it, but at least he may drop the subject if it’s a strong enough lie. He was hungry and got lost on the way to the kitchens, or he was taking a midnight stroll through the scenic pitch-black hallway, or-

His eyes adjust, and his excuses desert him.

“Dorian.”

So much for dropping it, then.

If the expectant look he’s wearing is waiting for an explanation, it’s going to be disappointed.

“Inquisitor,” he replies in a tone that makes it abundantly clear that it absolutely is.

Right. Well. Excuses aren’t about to get him anywhere, he’s sure; but they might serve to buy him time to think of something better.

“I was just-”

“Standing out here for the past quarter hour and pacing in front of the door?”

 _Quarter_ \- has it truly been so long? It’s blurry, a wash of pain he can’t quite measure to time, but he was almost certain- Perhaps Dorian is exaggerating. It certainly wouldn’t be the first time. But-

He must have been on the balcony to see Lavellan coming. He would have been there the whole time. It’s possible. The thought is more than a little discomfiting. He shakes himself.

“Thinking of excuses?” he offers at last with a hapless shrug. He clenches his fingers behind his back, willing the pain to concentrate as though it were a wound that could be forced shut with pressure.

“I can’t imagine why you would need an excuse. It’s your castle.” His face twitches into the beginnings of a smirk. “Which leads me to believe you are up to something.”

“Would you believe I was looking for you?” It’s worth a shot, he supposes. Though now, he thinks as the mark smarts particularly painfully, is really not the time he wants to start something.

“Not for a second,” Dorian chirps. “Flattering as it may be.”

Lavellan fidgets for a moment. If he were to bolt, Dorian would never catch him; elven eyes are better suited to the dark even if the mage calls fire, and he can get to high places quickly. Of course, that leaves open the possibility for even more uncomfortable questions tomorrow ( _why on earth did you run away and scale a tower_ not among the least of them), and that hardly seems favorable. Perhaps if he can distract him instead, start him talking about something else-

“You’re up late,” he tries.

“Don’t change the subject.” Ah, well. “Which reminds me - what have you got behind your back?” _Shit_.

Lavellan does his best to look baffled. He doesn’t imagine it’s particularly convincing, judging from the bemused half-grin Dorian now wears.

“What?” He groans inwardly. Well done. A perfect bluff. It’s really no wonder the Keeper pegged him as a spy. He’ll never suspect a thing.

“Your hand. The one tucked rather purposefully out of sight. What have you got?”

Without warning, he snatches for Lavellan’s arm. The elf tries to duck out of the way, but for once the mage is quicker. His palm sears where Dorian catches it, and he can’t bite back a short cry of pain. Immediately, he is relinquished; Dorian lets go of his hand as though it’s on fire, and Lavellan stumbles backwards, clutching his left hand in his right, willing the shooting pain to ebb.

“Kaffas,” comes the shaken response. “What was that?”

Well, there’s no sense in hiding it now.

He can’t quite hold back the wince as the bandage drags across the scar, and when it falls away they are bathed in the sickly, green glow.

“It’s- it’s not always so bad,” he says quickly, heading off the admonishment he knows is coming. “Just sometimes it… well, it does this.”

The green leaps and fizzes on his palm, biting sharply wherever it touches. His stomach lurches. Truth be told, this is the worst he has seen it since Haven. But Dorian worries enough as things are; doesn’t need to know that. He forces a smile to his face (albeit a weak one, he’s sure), and tears his eyes away.

“May I…?”

He nods stiffly, steeling himself. Dorian’s hands take on a soft, blue glow, and Lavellan’s smile twists into a grimace as the mage takes his hand. It stings. Creators, it _stings_. His fingers twitch and curl inwards despite his efforts.

“That bad?”

He can feel Dorian watching him, but meeting his eyes again seems like a bad idea just now. Wordlessly, he nods again.

“This is hardly my area of expertise,” the mage murmurs. Lavellan grits his teeth as Dorian turns his hand, willing himself not to wrench it away. “You were going to see Solas, I imagine.”

“I had thought about it,” he admits. “I didn’t want to wake him.”

“Well, _I_ don’t mind.”

He’s already halfway through the rotunda before Lavellan regains his wits. The Inquisitor curses under his breath and stumbles after him, hastily tugging the bandage back into place.

The mage is hard to wake, as it turns out. Five minutes at least see a periodically-cursing Dorian prodding the man in various soft spots while Lavellan (still entirely convinced they should not be here) hovers uneasily in the corner and whispers half-hearted protests he knows won’t work. Then, finally, just as Lavellan thinks Dorian may be readying something particularly unpleasant, Solas’s eyes flick open as though he has simply been resting them.

If it weren’t for the pain and the nagging guilt, he would laugh at the way Dorian nearly jumps out of his skin.

Solas leads them out to the rotunda in silence. The man seems almost eerily alert after such a deep sleep, but the set to his brow keeps Lavellan silent on that matter. He feels a twinge of guilt (far from the first that’s tugged at him tonight) at the way Solas rubs his temple when he settles into his usual chair, at the sharpness in his eyes.

“It’s nothing,” he tries. “Really, don’t worry about me, I-”

Solas reaches out a hand in silence.

He swallows. As painful as the Mark has already proven, he has a sinking feeling this is going to be worse. Reluctantly, he sinks into the remaining chair and surrenders his hand.

It seems almost contrary, that Solas’s grasp is so jarringly harsh after Dorian’s. The man holds his palm open with force that nearly draws a cry from him, and his eyes flit over its surface many times without a word.

“Anything?” Dorian asks after a long moment.

Solas eyes them disapprovingly.

“This is not a matter to be taken lightly,” he says. He does not release Lavellan’s hand. “You should not have kept this to yourself.”

“I’ll remember that for next time,” he answers wryly. No one smiles. Lavellan shifts uncomfortably, wishing Solas would loosen his grip just enough that he didn’t feel like plunging his hand into flame would be an improvement.

“This will require care,” Solas says at last. “I can curb it with my magic, but that will only go so far. I will need to maintain it over time.”

At this, the mage’s hands begin to radiate a blue-green haze. Lavellan gulps again, and resists the instinct to jerk his hand away. Perhaps it won’t be so bad.

As it turns out, it’s not ‘so bad.’ It’s _excruciating_. The mark feels as though it has been torn open by the seams, and something foreign is stitching flesh to Fade. Lavellan’s breath begins to come thinly, and he clenches his jaw to keep any sound of his pain from escaping.

Then the magic washes over the mark one last time, and leaves in its wake a harsh relief not unlike cold water meeting a burn. As Solas churns the last remains of mana around his hand, Lavellan catches Dorian watching them intently.

“This spell you’re casting,” the man interjects at length. “Can it be taught?”

Lavellan stares. Solas raises an eyebrow.

“Certainly,” he answers. “Though it would require a great deal of study on the part of any mage who wished to attempt it.”

Lavellan flounders.

“I can’t-”

“Yes, yes, you can’t possibly ask such a thing of anyone.” Dorian waves a dismissive hand. “How very self-sacrificing. Luckily for you, I’m offering. Decent of me, yes?”

“I-” he can’t quite find the words. Or a thought to go behind them, for that matter. He’s offering to- He can’t. He won’t. It’s bad enough that he has to drag Solas into this, but Dorian-

But _Dorian_. He’s offering. Besides (and here he has to clear his throat and turn to keep Solas from seeing the sudden flush of his ears), his hands were gentler, and for more reasons than comfort Lavellan can’t deny a nettling wish to feel them hold his own again, under less dire circumstances. Would it truly be so bad? And… he’s _offering_. Something in his chest feels warmer at that.

“Thank you,” he murmurs dumbly.

Solas nods in curt approval.

“Come to me tomorrow, as soon as you can,” he instructs the other mage. “This cannot wait long. If the Inquisitor needs assistance, I trust he will ask.”

He moves his fingers experimentally, and while it is far from comfortable, the sting that comes with it is bearable.

When he has sufficiently lectured Lavellan on the absolute necessity of something or other (he’s sure it’s very important, but Dorian has placed a hand on his shoulder and seems to be deciding whether or not to keep it still or try to soothe him, and Lavellan can’t seem to focus on much else), Solas bids them a surly goodnight and takes his leave.

He lets Dorian’s hand on his back guide him through the hallways.

“Spending extra time with our dear friend Solas,” the man sighs when they reach the door. “The things I do for you - honestly.”

And there’s the sinking guilt again. Here he’d thought he had nearly lost it.

“I didn’t ask-”

“You never do, do you?” He gives a dry bark of laughter. “Perhaps you should try, sometime. Might be good for your health.”

He has no response for that. He can hardly deny it.

The stairs to his quarters are quiet, and the birds in the rafters shuffle quietly at their passing. He knows the way by heart, now (and so, he notes, does his guide). When they reach the final door, Lavellan pushes it open in silence.

A quarter hour, indeed. The candle resting on his desk has long since burnt out. He goes for a match, but Dorian waves him away, and a bright bead of flame sprouts from the wax at a snap of his fingers so theatrical Lavellan wonders if he’s showing off (he then decides that this is Dorian, and of course he is).

Dorian gravitates absently towards the couch and the pile of paperwork left there from the previous night, and Lavellan drifts towards the bed, eyes suddenly heavy. He cannot have slept for more than a few hours, he realizes. Perhaps not even that. The covers lie bunched and thrown aside where he left them, the pillows scattered haphazardly from his wild jolt awake. His fingers curl tightly into his palm, then relax. It’s fixed. Or it will be, soon. Because of a silly coincidence and-

“Why _were_ you up?” Lavellan remembers suddenly.

Dorian turns to face him and replaces whatever papers he had taken from the couch.

“Light reading,” he replies. “The Liberalum isn’t the most gripping subject, but it does need reading. Time is of the essence, after all.”

For the first time he realizes how truly exhausted the man looks. The dim candlelight bathes him in bronzes that accentuate the shadows on him. There are more of them than usual. The rings under his eyes are dark and sagging, and his hair is as mussed as Lavellan has ever seen it. If the man had a mirror, he would be appalled. Though in his own opinion, he thinks with an inward smile, it’s a rather endearing sight. For some reason he can’t quite place, it makes him think of mornings.

“Stay, if you like,” he offers tentatively. His heart is beating quicker than it probably should. “You look like you could use some sleep.”

Dorian’s eyebrows shoot upwards, but he makes no move towards the door.

“The research isn’t going to do itself,” he points out. “What use was acquiring it if no one puts it to good use?”

“And what use will you be if you keel over halfway up a mountain?” Lavellan counters.

They’re standing closer together than he realized, all of a sudden. Dorian still has not made for the door. If anything, they have both edged further into the room without his notice. His heels are nearly flush with the base of his bed, he realizes now, and Dorian is… He swallows. Dorian is very close.

“Fair point.” He’s grinning. Bright, genuine and unafraid.

Well. If they’re being bold, then he’ll be bold. The ground feels steady under him when he steps forward, and he reaches up to anchor both fists in Dorian’s collar. The mark gives no protest.

“Stay,” he repeats simply.

“When you put it like that,” Dorian agrees, and snuffs the candle.

He allows himself a smile in the darkness, and when he falls back, he brings Dorian with him.

****  
  



End file.
